


Alternative Means of Delivery

by Oldtendencies (certaintendencies)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hospitalization, M/M, don't ask me who the swedes are i don't do casefic, vague descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certaintendencies/pseuds/Oldtendencies
Summary: Fake it til you make it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in years. I don't know how feasible it is to remain fake married to the British government for any length of time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrived fake nuptials and a wounded Mycroft.

Mycroft Holmes wiggled his bare toes under the starkly white and unpleasantly textured hospital sheet, gazed unhappily at the dark screen of his personal mobile, and dearly wished for a cigarette. 

The medical professional tending to the laceration his right upper arm tied off a stitch and snipped the thread neatly before glancing up at him, assessing.

Mycroft looked back at her and raised his eyebrows, widening his eyes slightly. She snorted behind her mask and continued. His whole arm burned, in an abstract sort of way, but the hurt was compartmentalizable, and much preferable to the reaction he would have to a local anaesthetic. 

His phone flickered. He unlocked it with a few swipes of his fingers and squinted almost imperceptibly at the text. 

_ Alternative means of delivery secured. Package en route. -A _

Two sets of nearing footsteps became evident in the hall, the soft pad of a nurse’s trainers and the firmer, less giving tread of a Derby shoe. Two confident strides, a murmured conversation, one somewhat familiar voice - his phone flashed again. The surgeon snipped off another stitch. 

_ Congratulations on your recent nuptials, Sir. -A _

Mycroft frowned, lifting his gaze to the doorway. 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade entered the room, half a step behind an indulgent looking nurse, who stopped behind the surgeon and motioned Lestrade in further. “Sweetheart!” Lestrade exclaimed, gaze flickering from Mycroft’s face, to the stitches being placed in Mycroft’s arm, and back to his face again, catching his gaze. “I heard you were injured.” The nurse beamed. Mycroft noted the reappearance of Lestrade’s years-gone wedding ring, this time on his right ring finger, and the smirk at the corner of his mouth, curving slyly and most likely undetected by their two observers. 

He must still carry the ring with him, Mycroft thought. Insensible, really, but useful in this case. Alternative means of delivery indeed. “Darling,” he drawled, blinking at the sound of that word in his voice. “I’m quite alright, I assure you.” He held out his left hand, palm down, as Lestrade advanced ever closer, and the other man lifted one of his own hands to meet it, fingers curling under Mycroft’s, a thumb stroking briefly across the backs of his knuckles. Both of their hands were brought gently to Lestrade’s chest as he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. No whisper was forthcoming on the back of the unfamiliar contact - no murmured disclosure of information. Mycroft blinked again, and looked up to find amusement in Lestrade’s gaze, despite his dutifully drawn-together brows. 

“Quite alright?” He tutted, hitching one thigh up to perch on the edge of the narrow bed and untangling their fingers to reach towards Mycroft’s face. Mycroft stiffened but did not flinch as Lestrade’s fingers grazed carefully through his thinning hairline, just above the point where a few steri-strips held together the edges of another injury. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“It’s seven stitches here and some staples in your blasted forehead if you won’t stop waggling your eyebrows about so much,” the surgeon declared, snipping off her last stitch and glaring at him from over her mask. 

“He’s very expressive,” Lestrade said, somehow managing to sound both proud and apologetic. He gave Mycroft a patently fake smile and for some reason patted his uninjured shoulder. 

The surgeon gave another of her snorts and the nurse seemed to be in some sort of rapturous haze, such was her idiotic smile. Mycroft stifled the urge to curl his upper lip and merely tilted his head down, restraining himself to a mild glare as Lestrade’s smile turned ever more sickly sweet. Mycroft gave up after a few moments of surprisingly uncomfortable eye contact and switched his gaze to the surgeon. “Are we done here?”

“Yes,” She replied, dropping her forceps and scissors back onto her tray. “I believe “we” are done here.” She snapped her gloves off and tossed them atop the instruments, levelling her gaze at Mycroft briefly before sliding it over to Lestrade. “Do please make sure he takes something for the pain, if he ever deigns to feel it.”

“I’ll make sure he’s looked after,” Lestrade turned his smile to the surgeon and then to the nurse, “Do you think we could have a few moments alone?” He glanced overtly at Mycroft, sweeping his gaze from sheet-covered toes to suddenly blushing cheeks and then giving a shamelessly falsely abashed shrug to the nurse, who tittered and then actually had the audacity to wink. 

Mycroft watched them leave, nonplussed, and then looked once more to the Detective Inspector who had made himself so comfortable on Mycroft’s hospital bed. “I believe you have something for me?”

Lestrade blinked at him, and then shook his head slightly, reaching into his coat, “Right, yeah.” He withdrew a mobile in a black metal case and handed it to Mycroft. “I’m to give you that and let you know that me being messenger spouse was expedient and efficient and categorically not retribution for last week’s meeting.”

Mycroft sighed and took the phone. “Of course it isn’t.” He unlocked the screen with a swipe of his thumb and a twelve digit passcode while he looked at Lestrade, who was watching his face and not his fingers. “She was mistaken for a secretary by a foreign dignitary and spent a delicate portion of the negotiations fetching tea and coffee. She was unamused.”

“I see.” Lestrade leaned back and smirked. “I’m sure this is entirely unrelated.”

“Indeed. I find myself wondering why you could not have simply provided your professional credentials and been allowed back without quite so much…” he waved his left hand and wrinkled his nose, “fanfare.”

“Ah, you’ve your brother to blame for that. Made off with my warrant card to bluster his way in to see John.” 

“Of course he did,” Mycroft muttered, and then glanced down at the phone as it began to vibrate. “If you’ll excuse me,” Mycroft gave an insincere smile and answered the call. 

Lestrade, to Mycroft’s dissatisfaction, remained half-seated on the edge of the hospital bed, took out his own mobile, and proceeded to text as Mycroft designated strike points and conducted last minute changes to an operation that had been in the works for several weeks. Lestrade glanced up at one point and smiled at him, eyes crinkling as Mycroft directed a team into position just outside the fifth floor stairwell. 

“Grand Hotel is a go,” Mycroft said into the phone, his voice sounding strangely hollow to his own ears. Lestrade was still watching him, a calm, amused look in his eye, as Mycroft repeated the go order and sounded off, ending the call and locking the phone. Disconcertingly, the Detective Inspector did not offer any immediate conversation, but seemed content to watch Mycroft and be watched in return. 

Finally, Mycroft grasped upon something relevant with which to break the quiet. “I do hope Dr. Watson is relatively well.”

“Oh yeah, he’s fine. Twisted ankle, X-rays were clear.”

“Good, good.” Mycroft dropped his gaze to his hands and flexed his fingers above both of the mobiles resting in his lap, cradled in scratchy white sheets. “And the uh- the young Miss Watson?” 

“Ah,” Lestrade dithered, glancing down at the texts still on display on his mobile. Mycroft felt a curious pang of concern, which dissipated once the man looked up again. “I’ve been informed that she’s got a scraped knee, and is quite put out about it.” 

Mycroft felt himself wince before he could tamp down on the urge, which earned him an enquiring look from the inspector. 

“I’m afraid I was rather… abrupt with her relocation once the shooting started. I do hope he isn’t too upset with me.”

Lestrade was smiling. “Upset with you? For saving his daughter’s life? I reckon he’ll forgive you eventually.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft sniffed, looking down and resisting the urge to pluck at his scratchy sheet. “Perhaps. Sherlock, however…”

Snorting, Lestrade pocketed his phone and stood up from the bed. “Glass houses. It’s his “investigation” that brought the damn Swedes down on London in the first place. I didn’t even know you were involved ‘til they told me you’d been shot.”

“I wasn’t, until then,” Mycroft said, straightening up slightly with a flex of his stiff shoulders. His arm throbbed as if remembering that it had, indeed, been grazed by a bullet. 

“And now?”

“And now that they’ve made an attempt on the life of a civil servant there are certain…” he gave a slight shrug, “ _ Resources _ available that will be useful in eradicating their presence in the city.”

“I see.” Lestrade smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth drawing up in a boyish half-smile. “Convenient, I suppose.” 

Mycroft did not let his gaze linger on the man or his smile, and was therefore surprised into an aborted flinch when he realized that Lestrade’s hand was coming up to settle in Mycroft’s hair. “What,” Mycroft gritted out through clenched teeth, “ _ exactly _ do you think you are doing?”

“Mussing your hair up,” Lestrade replied, infuriating smile still in place. 

Mycroft inhaled slowly through his nose, keeping his neck stiffened against the gentle scrub of Lestrade’s fingers. “To what end?”

“Listen,” Lestrade leaned in slightly closer, as though imparting a secret. “I’ve got to go, lots of bloody paperwork, shots fired an’ all that. But as far as your nurse is concerned, we’re married, Mycroft.” His eyebrows lifted, “You could have  _ died _ . You think I’d get out of here without a little life-affirming snogging action? Not a chance.” 

Mycroft blinked as Lestrade’s fingers slipped from his hair. 

“I’m a very passionate person.” Lestrade informed him, rocking forward on the balls of his feet and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. He nodded towards Mycroft’s newly dishevelled state. “You’re getting off easy.”

Mycroft snorted, rolling his eyes. “Ridiculous.”

Lestrade’s smile evolved into a full-on grin and he removed a hand from his pocket as he took a step towards the door. “You should bite your lips.” He waved his hand in a vague gesture. “Verisimilitude.” 

Mycroft shook his head at the man’s antics, murmuring under his voice, “Unbelievable.” 

“Passionate,” Lestrade corrected. “Mind those eyebrows, you’ll get a stapling.”

“Out!” Mycroft barked, amazed amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. The nerve of the man.

“See ya, Sweetheart!” The man flashed him one more smile as he backed out into the hallway with a bounce in his step, hands once more stuffed in his pockets.

Mycroft watched the hallway for a few moments before taking a deep, settling breath. He picked up his personal mobile. 

_ I demand an annulment. -M _

_ Bring me a coffee and I’ll think about it. -A _

_ Alas, I am poorly. -M _

_ A man is never poor who is rich in love. -A _

_ Abominable. I demand further paperwork. -M _

_ Indeed? -A _

_ Your resignation. -M _

_ Of course, Sir. That’s cream and two sugars, by the way. -A _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ring gets stuck. Of course the ring gets stuck.

“ _Sweetheart_.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat and ran through half a dozen scenarios in his head before deciding to be bold. He was, after all, on lunch. “Darling,” he greeted darkly, doing his best to ignore Anthea’s scandalized eyebrows, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

_ ‘What _ ?’ Anthea mouthed, eyes and mouth wide with glee. Mycroft swatted away her attempt to steal the last olive from his salad and made a general shooing motion, which she ignored.

_ “Well,” _ Lestrade's voice filtered through the phone's speaker, sounding somewhat hesitant.  _ “About how much do we not want your brother to know we pretended to be married yesterday afternoon?” _

Mycroft sat up abruptly, spine rigid with terror. “Very, Detective Inspector. Very much indeed.”

_ “Right, okay. New question.” _

“Go on,” he prompted. Anthea was watching Mycroft's half of the conversation with a shark-like grin, tearing apart a bread roll and eating flaky tufts of it like popcorn. Mycroft slid his salad away from her with a disapproving look.

“ _ About how likely is he to work out what happened if I've still got the ring on? _ ”

“Why on Earth do you still-”

“ _ It’s stuck, isn’t it _ ?” Lestrade cut him off grumpily. “ _ Had a bit of a run in with a suspect and now my damn finger's too swollen to work it off.” _

Mycroft wondered, distressingly, whether the detective inspector is very badly injured. He did not make enquiries. “Ah,” he said.

“ _ So _ ,” Lestrade prompted after a moment. “ _ Is that enough to clue him in, do you think?” _

Mycroft debated the accuracy of deducing his brother's likely deductions via an audio-only phone connection, gave a thoughtful, “Hmm…” as a stalling tactic, and then blinked rapidly when Lestrade cleared his throat.

“ _ Only, he's here at the station, is all, terrorizing my sergeant. Sort of time sensitive _ .”

Mycroft's eyes scanned his surroundings and landed on the remnants of his and Anthea's meal. “Try not to panic, Detective Inspector. Sherlock can smell fear. Keep your hand in your pocket and do not draw attention to yourself. I shall dispatch an agent to assist you directly.”

Mycroft ended the call over the burgeoning protestations of the Detective Inspector and pinned Anthea with as intense a look as he could muster. She continued to chew her bread with a smirk. He plucked up a gold foil-wrapped pat of butter from the table in front of them and held it out. “I will give you one thousand pounds if you take this to Scotland Yard and assist with the removal of that blasted ring.”

“I'm on lunch.” Anthea pulled another morsel of bread from her roll and blinked prettily at him. “Also, this is the best day of my life.”

“Is it?” Mycroft asked silkily, curling his fingers around the butter and leaning forward. “You're fired.”

***

“You are adults,” Greg ground out, pinching the bridge of his nose with his left hand. “At a _police_ _station_. Please. I am begging you to pretend, for one afternoon, that you are aware of the behavior that would normally require and do your best to emulate it.”

“She started it,” Sherlock shrugged, utterly devoid of irony. He turned abruptly, swishing his coat, and began to investigate the files on Lestrade's desk. 

Sally pressed her lips together and looked at him for a beat before escaping back to her desk, leaving Lestrade to babysit. 

At that moment, a shining beacon of hope limped around the corner into his office, and Greg slumped back in his chair in relief. “Oh thank Christ.”

“Alright?” John greeted, smiling blandly as he came to a stop next to Sherlock. 

“No.” Sherlock informed him, straightening up and looking at Greg. He had an all-too familiar glint in his narrowed, piercing eyes. 

Greg sighed. 

Sherlock grinned. 

“Lestrade is hiding something.”

John raised his eyebrows and looked between them.

Greg contemplated retirement. 

Sherlock did his swivel-necked precursor to unwanted deductions and began to ooze his way closer to Greg. To Greg's bewildered relief, Mycroft Holmes chose that moment to stride into the bullpen. He paused briefly to give Lestrade an extremely meaningful glower, and then slipped into the lavatory, closing the door behind him.

Abandoning any pretenses toward dignity, Greg smiled brightly and pushed himself up from his chair. “‘Scuse me, gents, gotta have a wee.”

He skip-walked past Sherlock and John, right hand stuffed awkwardly in his pocket, and made a beeline toward the loo. 

He turned the handle and spun as he crossed the threshold, catching Sally's eye and giving her a look. He pointed at the pair still standing around in his office before closing the door in the middle of her eye-roll with a softly thunking click and locking it. 

He stared blankly at the door for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then turned around to face the other occupant.

“Sweetheart!”

“Oh do be quiet.”

“Rude.”

Mycroft huffed and stretched out his right hand, beckoning with an impatient gimme gesture. “Give me your hand.”

“Dispatch an agent, he says,” Greg grumbled, offering his bruised and swollen hand up for inspection.

“I  _ am  _ an agent,” Mycroft snipped, frowning as his hand came up to gingerly support Greg's own. “What manner of altercation did you get into?”

“The punching sort,” Greg replied helpfully. He watched with interest as Mycroft's long, pale fingers danced over his own blunt digits. They traced the purpled bruising and flipped Greg's hand palm up to scrutinize the way the metal of the ring dug into his swollen finger.

“Mmm.”

Greg watched Mycroft's face, smiling softly at the lines between his eyebrows and how his intense expression pulled at the edges of the steri-strips still in place over the cut on his forehead. He was a little surprised to find, once he pulled his gaze away from Mycroft's evincive eyebrows, that the other man had produced from somewhere a small, foil-wrapped pat of butter, and was tugging him toward the light over the sink by his wrist.

“Seriously?”

“I was at lunch.” Mycroft sounded a bit testy.

“Resourceful agent,” Greg placated, watching bemusedly as Mycroft unwrapped the foil and dipped a finger into softened butter, spreading it liberally over Greg's ring finger. “Sorry for interrupting your lunch.”

Mycroft did not look up from his task as he murmured, “Do let me know if I hurt you. I think it should come off without too much trouble.”

“Alright.”

Mycroft grasped Lestrade's wrist with one hand and twisted the ring with his other. It slid reluctantly up to the knuckle and stalled. The pressure was unpleasant, but not terribly painful. Mycroft frowned and twisted again, curling the tips of his fingers until his nails scraped against Greg's skin. With the purchase his nails afforded him, Mycroft began to make progress. He tugged the ring up with delicate, infinitesimal motions, twisting and smearing it over oiled skin, frowning in concentration.

Greg found himself holding his breath, only to let it all out in a huff of laughter as the ring slipped over his swollen knuckle, causing something in his finger to grind unpleasantly, and then clattered into the sink. 

They both stared dumbly as the ring spiraled its way down to the bottom of the basin before tinkling merrily down the drain. 

“Ah,” Mycroft said, blinking eloquently. He straightened up.

“Hm.” Greg sniffed. He prodded briefly at the idea of losing his wedding ring, and found no real remnants of pain there. He'd held onto it long enough he supposed. He flexed his fingers and looked over at Mycroft, who was staring forbiddingly into the sink. “Thanks for that,” he said, hoping his sincerity was clear. “Sherlock would have been insufferable.”

Mycroft glanced over and raised an eyebrow, once more testing the limits of his steri strips. 

“ _ More _ insufferable.”

“Quite.”

Greg bit his lips to stifle the crazed giggle he could feel building in his chest, and moved to the sink to wash his hands. “Married less than a day and already dropped the ring down the sink. Doesn't bode well, does it?”

“Anthea will be heartbroken,” Mycroft responded after a brief pause. 

Greg smiled and shuffled over so Mycroft could have a go at the sink. “She did seem rather keen.”

“I shall have to fire her again.”

Grinning at the sly little smirk Mycroft sent him as he bent to wash his hands, Greg dried his hands, mindful of his tender ring finger. “So.” He licked his lips and carefully slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “I suppose you have an exit strategy.”

“Not particularly.” Mycroft swept his palms together and twisted his lips thoughtfully. “Perhaps you could provide the all clear once John and my brother have left, or a distraction.”

“Mmm, alright. I’ll text you. Sit tight, and uh… Thanks, again, for uh, providing such a helpful agent.”

“Only the best,” Mycroft quipped with a self-deprecating smile. 

Greg huffed out a laugh, turned away, and unlocked the door. He opened it just wide enough to slip through and closed it once more behind him. Leaning back against the door, he took in the state of the bullpen, feeling more than hearing the lock click back into place before he stepped away. Sherlock and John were still in his office. 

“They were snooping, but they didn’t try the computer and they didn’t leave the office,” Sally informed him, glancing up briefly before returning once more to the form she was filling out. She ducked closer, eyes still trained on the form, a smile dimpling one of her cheeks. “He keeps pacing about and hitting the little one with his coat when he pirouettes.” 

Greg snorted and knocked the knuckles of his uninjured hand on her desk as he passed. 

“Alright, lads. How’s it going?”

Sherlock spun imperiously to face him, coat flaring. “Prostate trouble, Lestrade?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John sighed, shoulders slumping as he closed his eyes. 

“Coulda been doin’ a shit,” Greg suggested, flopping gracelessly into his chair and tapping the fingers of his left hand on the surface of his desk.

“No,” Sherlock denied instantly. “What  _ were _ you doing in there?” 

“Troubling my prostate, apparently.”

“No.” 

“Cheeky cig.”

“Lie.”

“Had a little weep. Emotional, me.”

“Wrong.”

“Clandestine meeting,” Greg tried, smiling to himself. Sherlock opened his mouth - and then shut it again. John exhaled through his nose and squinted at the both of them. 

“New relationship,” Greg continued, getting into it. “Some hand-holding.” He leaned back in his chair, watching Sherlock’s eyes dart over his person. He shoved his tongue into the inside of his cheek and decided to go for it. “Lunch time meet up - quick, sort of desperate, using butter for lube - that sort of thing.”

“ _ Interesting _ ,” Sherlock breathed, his face equal amounts fascinated and appalled. 

“Okay!” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and nodded at Greg. “We’re going now. Mrs. Hudson has Rosie and she’s been clingy since yesterday. Greg, if you see Mycroft will you tell him I owe him one?”

“Mycroft?” Greg asked, eyebrows lifting of their own accord. 

John and Sherlock both paused in their movements. “Yeah, for-” John pointed backward around his own upper arm, indicating the direction of the interview room he had come from. “The statement. Or does the British government not go in for that sort of thing?” 

Greg attempted a nonchalant shrug and eased his mobile out of his pocket with his left hand, while making a show of flexing the fingers of his right. He even shook it a little, making sure to hiss at the sensation. Sherlock homed in on the previously unwitnessed appendage, and Greg held the mobile under the desk, resting his wrist on his knee and texting left-handed. 

_ Cm out n act fussed about givn a statemnt _

“And what happened here?” Sherlock stepped closer and Greg drew his hand back. 

“Punched someone who asked too many questions.”

“Lie.”

Greg shrugged. “Punched someone, anyway.” 

“Is this really necessary?” Came a familiar voice from the bullpen. “I have been recently shot, you know.”

“A  _ graze _ ,” Sherlock jeered, spinning around to glare at his brother, the edge of his coat whipping John in the shin as he did. 

“Oi! Seven stitches,” Greg protested, standing up and slipping his mobile back into his pocket. 

At the same time, John grasped Sherlock’s coat at the collar and yanked it halfway off one arm. “You are  _ inside _ ! You have been  _ inside _ for  _ over _ an  _ hour _ !” He continued to strip the coat off Sherlock’s disgruntled person. “This is  _ unnecessary _ !”

“Boss, you’ve got a visitor,” Sally called gaily from her desk, without looking away from her computer. 

John wrenched the coat down Sherlock’s back and off his arms, balling it up furiously before shoving it into his chest. 

“Have I come at a bad time?” Mycroft asked, stepping delicately into the office.

“No. We were leaving.” Sherlock said, shaking his coat out with one ostentatious and noisy flap. “Let me just put this on. Good day Lestrade, Mycroft.” He nodded to each and slid his arms into the coat, shrugging it up over his shoulders. He turned, lining up right shoulders with his brother and leaning in as if telling a secret, though he did not deign to lower his voice, “Try not to injure any very young children while you’re out today, mmm?”

“I shall do my very best, brother dear,” Mycroft replied, dripping with civility.

John shoved briefly at Sherlock’s shoulder blades to knock him toward the exit, and took his place by Mycroft. Lestrade watched Mycroft’s countenance shift from wary to startled as John took his hand and shook it with both of his in a very doctorly clasp of gratitude.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” he said, locking eyes for a tensely prolonged moment and then giving a short, sharp nod, to himself, it seemed, more than anyone. “See you around.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmured softly. 

John was halfway gone, following Sherlock’s coat as it whipped around the corner into the hallway, when Mycroft turned and called after him, “John?”

The doctor stopped and turned, military precision marred by his weakened ankle. 

“Do give young Miss Watson my best.”

Another nod, and a half smile, and John about faced once more and made his limping way out of the bullpen. 

“Well,” Greg said after a beat had passed.

Mycroft turned and raised his eyebrows briefly. “Indeed.”

“That went better than I feared it would.” Greg watched Mycroft’s face for a moment, and the way he carefully and subtly rolled the shoulder of his injured arm. “I don’t suppose you’d like to actually fill out a statement?”

“Ah, I believe those forms were filled out and couriered here this morning. How silly of me to have forgotten.” 

Greg grinned and leaned a hip against his desk, tucking his hands under his arms. “All the way here for nothing, eh?”

“I wouldn’t say that exactly, no.” Mycroft trailed off and then seemed to shake himself. “But I really must be going, Detective Inspector. It has been a rather long lunch.” 

“‘Course, yeah. And thank you, again.” Greg shoved himself away from the desk and moved to shake Mycroft’s hand. His jammed finger felt stiff and odd curling around Mycroft’s, and he was careful not to jostle the man’s arm too much. 

Mycroft seemed to search his face for something, eyes flickering like Sherlock’s sometimes did, and then he smiled, a very small, private smile. “Anytime, darling.” 

Greg didn’t try terribly hard to tamp down on his smile as he watched Mycroft stride away. It fell off of its own accord when Sally appeared in his doorway and leaned against the jamb, a no-nonsense look in her eye. 

“So,” she said, arms crossing over her chest. “You wanna tell me what you were doing locked in the lav for ten minutes with the freak’s brother?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys worry about things. Greg gets a pep talk from Sally. Mycroft reveals himself to his brother (not like that). There's some slime.

"It's like an illness with you, isn't it?"

Greg leaned his cheek even harder against the heel of his hand and took a lazy swallow of his drink. "Dunno what you're talking about."

"You're incapable of not being in a one-sided relationship."

Squinting in a way he hoped looked forbidding and not just nearsighted, Greg lifted a finger away from his pint glass and pointed it at Sally. "You're so wrong, you don't even know how wrong you are. 'Snot a relationship. Can’t be one-sided."

Sally shook her head, eyes full of pity. "You're fixated already. I can tell. In your little brain you've gone on two dates and you're married and you're going to thaw his icy heart and soften his stiff upper lip and live happily ever after in mansion on some estate somewhere that he calls a cottage."

"He's not icy," Greg argued, sitting up a bit straighter in his chair. "He's just a bit... reserved. And his lip isn't stiff, anyway, I bet, and there's no way I'm leaving London and probably he isn't either so really... He- he might call a mansion a cottage, though, that bit- Why are you - Stop laughing! I'm having a crisis!"

"I'm sorry, you're just so pathetic! You haven't even gone on a date yet and you want to have his babies."

"We've... sort of gone on dates. A date. We met up."

"You dropped off a mobile," She ticked off on her fingers, "And you locked yourselves in the loo for ten minutes. Those aren't dates."

"It's..." Greg frowned unhappily. "A matter of context."

"You can contextualize hiding in the toilets all you want, but you didn't even snog, and it wasn't a date."

"You're so mean to me. Why are you being mean to me? I'm having difficulties."

"I'm not being mean - I'm being realistic. If you do want to be dating him, you're probably going to have to actually ask him on a date. You can keep meeting up in loos if you want, but he's not going to understand where you're coming from if you don't start coming from somewhere, yeah?"

"What if he says no?"

Sally sniffed and took a long pull of her drink before giving a shrug. "Then you meet up in a few more toilets, do a bit more flirting, and ask him again."

"You think I've got a chance," Greg realized.

"I think," Sally said, resting her elbows on the table and leaning forward. "The bit in hospital was all you, you like coming to the rescue and you saw someone who's normally buttoned up and in charge all vulnerable and injured but still competent, and it was like catnip to you.” Greg opened his mouth to interject but Sally flapped a hand and spoke over him, “I  _ also _ think, that the very next day, he dragged his vulnerable, injured, posh,  _ inscrutable _ arse down the station on his lunch break to hide in the fucking toilets with you and help you do something you could have done all on your own."

Greg felt the corner of his mouth tick up in a smile. "He did, didn't he?"

"Yeah, he did. He also fairly reeks of personal repression, so you're probably - Oi! Fuck off, he does! You're  _ probably _ gonna have to make the first move."

"Stop slagging off my once and future husband."

"That is the saddest thing anyone has ever said. You should call him. This is just painful to watch, now."

"I  _ am _ gonna call him. I'm... I'm gonna text him,” Greg mumbled slightly and brought his mobile out, unlocking it.

"It  _ is _ like an illness," Sally marveled. "You crave misery."

“Hush, I’m texting.”

“A drunk text. Nothing ill-advised about that. Sure to win him over.” Sally shook her head and drank her drink, watching Greg squint myopically at his small screen. She huffed and rolled her eyes at herself. “At least let me spell-check it before you send it off.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Mycroft stared forlornly at the live footage of the House of Commons and wished, for the thirteenth distinct time that day, that he had a cigarette. He wouldn’t even have to smoke it. He could just smell it. Hold it between his lips. 

His personal mobile vibrated.

_ Hey Mycroft, I was wondering if you might give me a call sometime when you weren’t busy. Cheers,  _

_ Greg _

Mycroft attempted, briefly, to calculate the intentions of the Detective Inspector’s text, before shaking his head and putting the phone on his desk, screen-down.

He sniffed, and let his gaze slide over the footage of the House of Commons, before standing abruptly and picking mobile up, tucking it into a pocket and striding to the door of his office. 

“Off out, Sir?” Anthea asked, a smirk in her tone. 

“I have some personal business to attend to,” Mycroft said, rather too imperiously. 

“Oh?” she prompted with a shark-like grin, lowering her Blackberry and leaning forward.

“I’m off to Baker Street,” Mycroft replied, wincing internally. He would have to go to Baker Street, the blasted woman was sure to check. 

“Hm.” Anthea relaxed, leaning back in her chair, “Have a good day, then, Sir.” 

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” Mycroft predicted bleakly, grabbing his coat and umbrella. 

  
  


***

  
  


“He isn’t calling,” Greg acknowledged sadly, leaning against the brickwork outside of the pub. 

“You told him to wait until he wasn’t busy.” Sally peered suspiciously at the clouds above them, calculating the likelihood of rain.   
  


“Why did I do that?”

Sally put her hood up. “Because you’re a coward who was too afraid to call in the first place so you left it up to him.”

“I called him! Before the toilets. ‘M not a coward.”

“You were panicked about Sherlock finding out then,” Sally pointed out, waving down a passing cab. “‘S like when mums lift cars off of babies. Your hysteria provided you with the emotional strength to make the first move.” She stepped over a puddle and opened the door of the cab, leaning an elbow on the roof, “Now you’re back to sad cowardly Greg who needs to be miserable.”

“Why am I like this?”

“I honestly don’t know.” She ducked into the cab, holding the door open and asking wordlessly if he wanted to share. He waved her on and she shrugged, “I hope to fuck you’re less pathetic when you’re face-to-face with him, because this is just distressing.” The door slammed and the cab pulled away. 

Greg sighed and gazed vacantly at the pavement as it darkened with drops of rain.

  
  


***

  
  


“Mycoff!”

Sherlock spun at Rosie’s exclamation. “Ah,” he smiled sharply, dropping a small wooden spatula into a bowl filled with something viscous and green. “ _ Mycoff _ .”

“Say it correctly, please,” John’s voice sing-songed from the kitchen. 

Mycroft gave the small plastic workstation a cursory inspection, noting an abundance of glitter-glue and many pots for mixing. Rosie was draped in a yellow raincoat, and Sherlock rustled beneath a clear plastic poncho of some sort. “Good evening brother,” Mycroft nodded at him, and then to the child. “Miss Watson.” 

“Mycroft,” John greeted from the kitchen doorway, drying his hands off on a tea-towel. “What brings you ‘round?”

“Mycroft is avoiding something,” Sherlock said, his silver eyes fairly glittering as they darted about Mycroft’s person. A subtle intake of breath preceded his reverent addition, “Of a  _ personal _ nature.”

“Right,” John frowned, looking between them. “Really?” 

Mycroft did not reply. Sherlock continued to glitter at him.

“Right,” John said again, the  _ blimey _ clearly implied. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Rosie, heedless of the momentous nature of recent implications, decided to regain Mycroft’s attention by pounding a sticky fist on the worktop and brandishing a wooden utensil covered in something oozing and blue. “Slime!” she declared. The blue substance gathered itself into a large drop and fell with a splat onto her raincoat. 

“Slime,” Mycroft agreed without argument, setting his umbrella down and removing his coat. He moved to sit gingerly on the couch, resigning himself to an interesting dry-cleaning bill as Rosie struggled out of her raincoat and came to join him.

“Ouch,” Rosie said, clambering up to kneel on his lap. Mycroft blinked and surveyed her carefully, steadying her wiggling with a hand against her back. Helpfully, she pointed to his forehead and announced once more, “Ouch.”

“Ah, yes.” Mycroft ghosted his fingers over the cut below his hairline. “I am given to understand that you, too, have sustained an injury?”

Rosie plopped herself solemnly down and rearranged her limbs in order to display her right knee, which, once her purple leggings were worked up above it, was revealed to bear a large scab. 

“Oh dear.”

Rosie seemed quite satisfied with his exaggerated wince, and rolled her leggings back down. 

Sherlock, who had divested himself of his poncho and cleared off the work-station by bundling all the pots and slimes into said poncho, deposited the rainbow plastic wad on the landing by the stairs and seated himself next to them on the sofa. He smiled. “So.” 

Mycroft tucked in his lips, flattened his mouth into a line, and tried very hard not to twitch. 

“Christ,” John said as he entered the room once more carrying tea, taking in the tableau. “It’s serious, then.”

“I really must be off,” Mycroft lied. Rosie frowned and failed to remove herself from his lap. She twisted her fingers into the lapel of his jacket and held fast. 

“ _ Who _ ?” Sherlock demanded, leaning in, eyes searching. “Someone I know.” 

Mycroft’s gaze flickered to John. 

“Someone  _ we _ know.”

Mycroft curled his fingers around Rosie’s and gently prised them loose. “ _ Really _ must be going,” he murmured apologetically. She frowned again, but was merciful, scooting off his lap and climbing onto Sherlock’s bouncing knees. Mycroft stood and cleared his throat.

John stared, and Sherlock smirked, holding onto Rosie as he bounced her. “Do come back soon, brother.”

“Right.” He grabbed his umbrella and draped his coat over his arm. “Good evening John, Sherlock, Miss Watson.”

He fled.

  
  


***

  
  


Greg sighed as he flopped gracelessly onto his bed. The ceiling tiles remained unmoved by his dejection. 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Greg rolled over and blinked at the digital display of his alarm clock. Right. Just gone 10. Christ he was old. 

He dug his phone out of his pocket and blinked at the screen. He shrieked and dropped it on his face when it started to ring.

“Fuck! Shit, um, hello?”

_ “Gregory?” _

“Mycroft! Hi! What’s uh… what’s up?”

_ “I… was under the impression that you wished to speak with me.” _

“Oh, yeah. Right. Of course, yeah. That’s… yeah I did. I do.”

_ “Ah.” _

Greg stared in panic at his ceiling tiles, which were once again unmoved by his dilemma. 

He sat up, swallowed, and took a breath. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various people are varying degrees of aggravating. Dinner happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very slow and very sorry.

Mycroft sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking speculatively up at Anthea, who was taking notes on her mobile. “Regarding the unfortunate outcome of the Swedish operation,” he began, carefully nonchalant. “I shall have to speak with someone from a less… specialized department. The remaining members are proving annoyingly difficult to round up. The appropriate authorities must be notified and convinced of the threat.” He looked down and cleared his throat, picking at the stitching in the arm of his ergonomic chair. “Sometime this evening would be best,” he told the chair arm.

A conspicuous silence heralded the sudden cessation of Anthea’s note-taking. 

“This evening.” 

“Yes,” Mycroft reiterated, looking up and blinking at the height of Anthea’s pointedly raised eyebrow. “The threat is real, and possibly imminent. Tonight is… appropriate.” His confidence wavered in the face of the nonplussed face of his assistant. They stared at one another for some moments. 

Abruptly, Anthea’s thumbs began once more to tap away at her mobile. “Right.” She demilitarized her eyebrow and dropped her gaze to the small screen in front of her. “Will this meeting take place before or after your dinner date?”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft said, utterly false. “Unfortunately, dinner shall most likely have to be rescheduled.”

“I see,” Anthea said, affecting another loaded pause in her typing. She pierced him with her gaze and lowered her phone. “And will you be informing the Detective Inspector of your broken engagement, or will you be making me do your dirty work, in keeping with your newly discovered status as a  _ coward?” _

Mycroft groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Oh don’t, Anthea,  _ really.” _

“Me?” She exclaimed, incredulous.  _ “You!” _

Mycroft groaned again and dropped his hands, slumping into his chair and peering at her pathetically, hoping against hope for something approaching sympathy. 

She scoffed and raised her phone once more, tapping sedately. “Oh don’t be so wet, sir, honestly.”

“This is excruciating.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.” 

“I really must meet with someone about the Swedes, you know.”

“Of course, sir.” She agreed, smirking at her phone. “I’ll schedule a meeting with a liason from the Met.” She turned to leave his office, speaking as she went, “Over dinner, perhaps? 7:30? That place that does the chateaubriand you like.” 

“Oh for-”

“Have a good evening, sir!” 

***

“Bloody stupid housebreakers,” Greg grumbled at his reflection, fingers busily doing up the buttons of his emergency shirt. “And their bloody  _ stupid _ housebreaking.”

“You’re not gonna make it.” 

“I’m gonna make it,” Greg said, sucking in his stomach and determinedly stuffing his shirttails into his trousers. He raked his fingers through his hair and crunched a polo between his teeth, turning away from the mirror to face Sally. 

She had followed him into the lavatory to mock him, and was leaning against the tiled wall, arms crossed and smirk firmly in place. 

He swallowed the remains of his mint with a gulp and patted his shirt front, attempting to flatten it. “How’s my hair look?”

“Grey,” she informed him helpfully.

“Right, thanks.” He pulled his jacked off the hook on the back of the door and shrugged it on. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past.” 

_ “Fuck.” _ He yanked the door open and flung himself out of the lavatory and into the bullpen. “I’m not gonna make it.”

Sally followed at a more sedate pace and called after him as he disappeared down the hall, “Have fun!”

***

Mycroft sat alone in the curved booth, fingernails of one hand tapping delicately at his menu. His gaze wandered from table to table, observing couples and groups as they consumed meals and drinks. He did not check his pocket watch. A small burst of activity by the entrance drew his attention, but it was a tall, blond man with a frown that entered and made a beeline toward the bar. No others entered with him. 

Mycroft sighed and continued to scan the restaurant. He settled his focus on a booth with a pair of older women. Their heads bent towards each other as they spoke quietly. Mycroft watched as their fingers brushed briefly, tangling and disengaging in a practiced, understated touch. They were absently sharing a salad, forks nimbly dodging one another as they picked out preferred bits and pieces without contention. 

A sudden change in the pressure of the padded bench alerted Mycroft to the arrival of company as Greg Lestrade flopped down next to him in the curved booth. “I am so sorry,” he said, slightly breathless. “How late am I?”

“A few minutes, only,” Mycroft waved his hand dismissively, taking in Greg’s appearance peripherally as he busied himself with taking a sip of water. Greg was flushed with mild exertion, his hair spiked and somewhat damp. His jacket bore the creases of a day of wear, the crisp white shirt beneath it less so. Their eyes met, and Mycroft cleared his throat before looking away, needlessly realigning his silverware 

“You look nice,” Greg said, after a beat of silence, reaching for his own glass of water. 

Mycroft let out a wry snort and rolled his eyes. “I look much the same as always.”

“Yeah, well.” Greg set his glass back on the table with thunk, and leaned in slightly. “Maybe you always look nice, sweetheart.” 

Mycroft was relieved of the responsibility of finding some way to respond to that when their waiter arrived. They ordered starters, and Mycroft had little difficulty persuading his dinner companion to agree to the chateaubriand to share.

“So,” Greg began once the waiter had left them, unfolding his serviette and placing it in his lap. “I understand we have some business to attend to?”

“Yes.” Mycroft followed suit with his serviette, grateful for something other than the Detective Inspector to focus on as he smoothed it out. “Unfortunately, our intelligence with regards to the Swedes was somewhat inadequate. Quite a few members of the organization are still at large following an semi-successful operation to neutralize the group.”

“And now they’re on to you, and evasive as ever.”

“They are indeed.”

“Any idea how many?”

“A dozen, perhaps, not many more. No leadership, but perhaps an individual or two with designs on a higher-ranking role within the organization.”

“You think they’ll try something? Revenge?”   
  


Mycroft shrugged, lips twisting together unhappily. “Perhaps. One individual in particular worries me. He is potentially the type to wish to… make a statement.”

Greg grimaced. “I see. A statement more obvious than opening fire on a busy London street.”

“It is a possibility. Prior to their most recent escapades involving my brother, their modus operandi was kidnappings, either for ransom or the occasional political influence.” Mycroft watched Greg’s reaction closely.

“So… right.” Greg sniffed and his jaw tensed as his eyes lost focus. Mycroft watched the calculations flit across his features as he digested the information. Eventually his eyes fixed on Mycroft again, and he gave a small nod. “I’ll let my team know.”

“I would appreciate it.” Mycroft said, relaxing minutely. He tapped his fingers against the table top and then curled them reflexively. “We are monitoring what we can and attempting to locate those still at large, but I fear they must have had a bolthole somewhere outside of London.”

Greg studied him briefly and nodded again, taking another sip of his water. 

Mycroft found himself watching Greg’s throat work as he swallowed, and quickly looked away. His focus landed on the blond man who had entered the restaurant before Greg. He was just turning back to the bar, and Mycroft watched a hint of pink creep up the back of the man’s neck above his collar, as he felt a flush prickle its way across his own skin. When he looked back at Greg the man was smiling, one side of his mouth drawn up in a distinctly satisfied manner. 

The waiter arrived with their starters, and Mycroft took a cautious mouthful of his risotto as Greg blew gingerly on a spoonful of his cream of mushroom soup.

“You’ve put your brother on the case as well, I imagine.” Greg said, and shifted on the seat.

Mycroft felt a shoe bump against his own, a gentle nudge followed by a steady presence, as Greg aligned their feet. Mycroft blinked. The steady, unobtrusive point of contact caused an unwarranted upheaval in his circulatory system. It took him a moment to focus back in on the conversation. “My brother has put himself on the case, yes, though I fear he is likely to withhold certain relevant information should he come across it.”

“He is a competitive little shit sometimes, isn’t he?”

Mycroft let out an involuntary sigh of exasperation, his fork clanking embarrassingly loudly against his plate. He was oddly grateful when Greg grinned in understanding, blowing on another spoonful of his soup. A thought niggled at the back of Mycroft’s mind. “Speaking of Sherlock, there is an unfortunately high probability that he will soon make himself an annoyance regarding our...” Mycroft paused, mind shuffling through possible word choices, “Association.”

“Well,” Greg shrugged easily. “A, Sherlock makes himself an annoyance regarding pretty much everything, and B,” He leaned forward, a glint in his eye. “He’s not the only one interested in finding out more about our association.” 

Mycroft frowned. “I know as much as you do, Detective Inspector.”

“Well, I know I’d like it if you called me Greg, to start.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Mycroft said, wary. He looked down at his plate and rearranged grains of rice with the tines of his fork. When he looked back up, Greg was watching him, an amused look on his face. “What?”

“Is it gonna be like pulling teeth the whole time with you? ‘Cause I don’t mind, but I’m gonna have to prepare for it.”

“Pulling teeth?” Mycroft repeated, baring his own, affronted despite himself. “I assure you,  _ Greg,  _ you are under no obligation to continue our association if you find it so distastef-”

“Alright, sweetheart!” Greg was laughing, hands up in supplication. “I said I didn’t mind, didn’t I? Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

“And we’re on the same page, are we?”

Shrugging, Greg’s foot slid alongside Mycroft’s, a light, cajoling pressure. “We’re on the same date, aren’t we? Stands to reason.”

“There is nothing reasonable about this,” Mycroft muttered.

“Well if you find our association so distasteful…” Greg smirked. 

“Are you always so maddening?”

“I think you mean charming.”   
  
“I think I meant what I said.”

“Well you’ll just have to stick around and find out.”

Mycroft picked up his water glass and swirled it, taking a sip and watching Greg’s face over the rim. “I suppose I shall.”

“Good, that’s… good.”

Mycroft shifted in his seat under the intensity of Greg’s gaze, and was reminded suddenly of an item in his pocket. “I understand that you never retrieved your ring from lavatory sink at your workplace.”

***

Greg blinked at him, his mind flashing back to the loo and Mycroft’s fingers wrapped around his. “How’d you understand that?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I checked.”

“Right. Er… no. No I didn’t.” He gave an awkward shrug. “Didn’t seem worth it.”

“I see. I would like to apologize for losing it.” 

“Oh no, it’s alright-”

Mycroft reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. 

Greg watched their waiter approach the table with their steak, eyes flicking between him and Mycroft’s little velvet box, which was opened to reveal a silvery band flecked with specks of something suspiciously shimmery. “Oh you sure know how to mix your signals, don’t you?”

Mycroft’s brow furled for a moment before he rolled his eyes again. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Greg saw their waiter pause a few paces away, observing cautiously. Well. In for a penny. He captured Mycroft’s foot between his own and leaned forward with a fleeting wink. He plucked the ring from the box, sliding it on and pitching his voice to carry. “I accept.”

Mycroft looked confused for a brief moment, and then his eyes widened before narrowing murderously as a nearby patron gasped excitedly and began to clap. 

“Impossible man,” Mycroft hissed.

“Passionate,” Greg corrected, leaning in slowly, making sure Mycroft wouldn’t flinch away. He pressed a grinning kiss to a corner of Mycroft’s unyielding frown, and nudged his foot under the table. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispered, “Verisimilitude.”

“This is absurd.” Mycroft murmured, but his lips softened and his face turned, very slightly, head tilting and ducking in closer to Greg. His breath puffed warm and wet against Greg’s skin. More people began to clap.

“Free champagne,” Greg suggested, smiling, his lips catching and dragging against Mycroft’s. 

“Absolutely maddening,” Mycroft breathed, and kissed Greg back.

***

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free dessert and some legwork. Mycroft is not fond of Slough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full time work and full time school means verrrrrrrrrrry slow updates. My apologies.

“Did you know we’d get a free dessert as well?” Greg asked, inspecting his spoon and licking a smear of chocolate from the bowl of it. 

“I may have suspected,” Mycroft admitted, cheerfully drawing his spoon through chocolate and peanut butter ganache. He turned the spoon upside down in his mouth and drew it out slowly, giving an unsettled blink when he caught Greg staring. 

Greg cleared his throat, eyes flicking away, just barely missing the gaze of the man who had been observing them the entire night. He turned back to Mycroft, leaning in and lowering his voice slightly. “And the big Swede at the bar - did you know we were gonna get kidnapped tonight as well?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and set his spoon down with a small, private smile. He looked up at Greg from under his eyelashes, and his fingers flexed, curling and uncurling, held slightly above the tablecloth. “I knew there was a possibility that I would be targeted. Prior to dinner I was unable to predict with any degree of certainty the likelihood of you being picked up as well.”

“And now?”

Mycroft sucked his lower lip between his teeth and looked away briefly to scoop up a spoonful of ice cream. He offered it to Greg. “Newly affianced light of my life? You are almost definitely a target.” Greg found it somewhat difficult to glare at someone while eating ice cream off their spoon. Mycroft did not seem bothered by Greg’s attempt. He withdrew his spoon with a twinkle in his eye. “You would be an excellent source of emotional leverage.”

“Mycroft.”

“Yes?”

“Did you fake propose to me so you'd have company while being kidnapped?”

“Nonsense.” A toe tapped Greg’s foot beneath the table in gentle admonishment. “I did it for the burnt chocolate ice cream. The company is a bonus.”

Greg huffed an incredulous laugh and scooped up another spoonful of the, admittedly delicious, dessert. 

“At any rate,” Mycroft continued, taking another bite for himself, “You needn't come. I can very easily manufacture an excuse to leave early and alone, and you may remain here in safety until my people collect you.”

“So I can play hooky if I want, but you're set on getting yourself abducted?”

Mycroft hummed, taking a sip of his champagne. “I'm terribly interested in where I shall be taken.”

“I thought you hated legwork.”

Mycroft’s face screwed up into a grimace, which he shrugged off with a sigh. “Well I doubt they’re going to  _ walk _ me to their secret hideout.”

Greg set his spoon down and laughed, disbelieving. “You’re absolutely crackers, you know that?” 

“I will admit that I usually do not take such a vested interest in these sorts of things,” Mycroft allowed, countenance turning solemn. “But they have made it rather personal, this time.”

“Not used to getting shot at, then?”

“Not used to getting  _ shot _ , certainly, and with young Miss Watson present as well, which I cannot countenance.” Mycroft set his elbow on the table and dropped his chin onto his palm, watching Greg calmly, “I will find where they are hiding and I will make it so that they will never act so recklessly again.” His eyes flicked between Greg’s, calculating. “I must reiterate that you are under no obligation to join me. I’m reasonably certain that I shall not come to any real harm, but there are no guarantees with these sorts of things.” 

“So you’re really gonna do it, get yourself kidnapped to find their secret lair?” 

“It’s efficient, and I have always been a great proponent of efficiency.”

“Well then,” Greg said, mind made up. “You better finish your ice cream, sweetheart, ‘cause the longer we stick around the more likely Sven over there is to notice that we keep noticing him.”

“He is rather bad at this, isn’t he?”

“Horrible,” Greg agreed, signaling the waiter. 

  
  


***

  
  


“So how’s this gonna work, exactly?” Greg asked, his voice distractingly low in Mycroft’s ear as he helped him on with his coat.

“My people will track us using various methods at their disposal. We have contingencies in place for multiple situations, but ideally we will be extracted as soon as we arrive.” Mycroft shrugged his shoulders, settling the lines of his coat, and turned to help his companion on with his own outerwear.

“And what happens if we get separated? Am I as easily ‘trackable’ as you?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smoothed his palms down Greg’s arms, assuring the garment sat appropriately, and dropped one hand, tapping lightly on the band around Greg’s left ring finger. “Not quite as extensively, but I did take that possibility into account.”

“Don’t tell me this is a fake?” Greg waggled his newly-beringed finger. 

“Very real, I assure you,” Mycroft murmured, leading them out the double doors to stand under the shallow cornice in the lamplight. “Merely… enhanced.” 

“Well... thanks for that, I suppose,” Greg huffed a laugh and shuffled closer, leaning his shoulder against Mycroft and glancing out at their surroundings. “If I hadn’t asked, were you gonna tell me about it?”

“Possibly,” Mycroft smirked.

Greg wrinkled his nose and bumped their shoulders together again, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He turned in, angling his body towards Mycroft and ducking close to murmur. “You ready for this, sweetheart?”

The doors behind Mycroft opened once again, and a black car rolled to a stop by the pavement. 

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as a stranger stood far too close. A car door closed in the quiet of the night, and the driver made his way around the vehicle. Mycroft met Greg’s eyes. They were shadowed, hooded from the lamplight, but shining at him. He took a breath. “I suppose I must be.”

***

“This is preposterous.”

“You were picturing more of a back seat scenario, then?” 

Greg’s voice was muffled, his mouth pressed up against Mycroft’s collar.

“Indeed,” Came the rumbled reply as the car peeled away from the restaurant in a squeal of tyres. “Oh for- Could they be any more conspicuous?” 

Greg, who had been thrown even closer to Mycroft with the force of their escape, did not bother to reply. He carefully insinuated a leg between Mycroft’s thighs, attempting to forestall any unfortunate kneeing incidents, and, using an elbow against the bottom of the boot for traction, gained himself some leverage. He eased back enough that he no longer had any bits of coat in his mouth. 

“Are you alright?” Mycroft asked, all irritation gone from his voice.

“Mm, yeah, think so.” Greg tested the zip ties encircling his wrists. Too tight. They either wouldn’t be on long, their captors didn’t care about them retaining the use of their fingers, or they had no idea how to properly use tactical restraints. He blinked, unable to see anything in the blackness of the boot. “They were a bit rough. How’s your arm?”

“I fear we are dealing with their “B” team, as it were. I don’t believe my stitches are at full capacity, but my arm is fine. I apologize.” Mycroft shifted, and Greg felt a puff of breath across his forehead. “I was rather expecting a more comfortable ride.”

Greg tilted his head up, his cheek brushing Mycroft’s. He grinned. “You’re a much more considerate kidnapper. Invitations and back seats. You’re a regular softie.”

Mycroft snorted. “The  _ boot _ . Honestly. The nerve of some people.”

Greg was just getting his bearings when the car hit a bump, tossing both of them up and landing them roughly, jarring Greg from elbow to shoulder and knocking his forehead into Mycroft’s jaw.  _ “Christ.” _

“Sorry!” Greg gasped, wincing. They rounded a corner at a frankly unnecessary speed and Greg groaned and tucked his head under Mycroft’s chin, wriggling closer to try and keep from getting far enough away that they could really hurt each other if they crashed together. 

The car made a few more, less violent turns, and then seemed to settle. Greg tentatively leaned back, looking towards Mycroft’s face, though he couldn’t make it out in the dark. “You alright?”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, shifting distractingly. “I believe we’re going East.” 

“Well that’s… Where d’you suppose their hideout might be?” 

“If our current luck holds it’ll be somewhere in bloody  _ Slough _ . forty five minute away at least. This is an abominable means of travel and I regret immensely my decision to engage in legwork.”

Greg snorted. “It’s not the most comfortable arrangement,” he allowed. He shifted his hips and wound up rolling into Mycroft slightly as they accelerated. “Could think of worse people to be snugged up against in the dark, though.” He lay still for a moment, feeling Mycroft breathe against him. “Actually, this was sort of in my plans, you know. I was picturing a less hostile environment, obviously. More pillows. Hadn’t figured on the restraints, but if you’re into that-”

“I’m not.”

“Fair enough.” 

The car hit another small bump, jostling them together, and Greg felt Mycroft’s thighs tense briefly around his. He curled his knees up a little more and flexed his spine, feeling Mycroft’s chest expand with a deep intake of breath. 

“Have you… any other plans? For us?” Mycroft asked after a moment of quiet. 

Greg grinned and stretched his fingers out behind him, feeling the stiffness of his jammed finger and the familiar newness of the ring. 

“You want like,” Greg bit his lip in the dark, trying to picture the look on Mycroft’s face. “The sexy bits, or just sort of in general?”

“You’ve got-” Greg could hear the inverted commas as Mycroft said it, “‘Sexy bits’  _ planned _ out?” he asked, voice lowering dangerously.

Greg sucked in a breath at Mycroft’s tone. “Keep talking like that and I’ll have, yeah.”

Mycroft scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re sexy,” Greg countered, “Can’t help it. Maybe it’s less of a plan and more that I’m hopeful. To answer your question, though, I do have other plans for us. My main one is a date that doesn’t end in a kidnapping, and a proper kiss.”

“I do believe we’ve had one of the latter.”

“Oh no.” Greg leaned his head back, lifting his chin. “I’ve had a grand total of two kisses off you and they were both for the benefit of other people. I’m talking  _ proper _ . No witnesses, no bluffing, just fingers-in-hair, eyes closed, give and take,  _ probably _ tongue, proper actual  _ snogging _ .”

“...Ah.”

“Only if you want to, obviously,” Greg added, trying to interpret Mycroft’s stillness.

“I would… not be averse.”

“Good.” Greg took a deep breath and felt some tension leave his body as he exhaled. “That’s good.”

The car began to slow. 

“How long’ve we been in here?”

“Ten minutes, perhaps.”

They made a long turn, inertia slowly pressing them closer, until Mycroft was nearly prone and Greg rested on top of him. “Not quite Slough.”

“Thank heavens.”

“What d’you think, Notting Hill, assuming the A40?”

“No, we made a slight turning. Harrow Road?”

“So what, North Kensington?”

“Near there, very probably,” Mycroft confirmed, his voice sounding strange. The car straightened out and Greg did his best to roll off of him. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” 

“You don’t sound fine.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I am… nervous, I suppose.”

Greg frowned, running his thumb along the surface of the band on his finger. “About what’ll happen when we stop?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said softly, “That, too.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swedes, some Diabetic ketoacidosis, an unidentified target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive. Probably. Sorry I take so long at everything.

“Watch it!” Mycroft heard Greg shout as he was dragged out of the boot. Mycroft himself had been forcefully yanked out a few moments previously by two men, one of whom still had an unfortunately tight grip on his upper arms, pulling them sharply back. Mycroft gritted his teeth and squinted into the gloom of the car park, watching as Greg was dragged, struggling, from the boot by the blond from the restaurant. His gaze locked with Mycroft’s and his squirming lessened, feet hitting the ground and eyes asking a question. 

Mycroft nodded, doing his best not to twist his arm in the grip of the man behind him, lest he dig his thumb in further. 

They were led to a dingy looking lift and forced inside. The button for the top floor was pushed and Mycroft’s stomach lurched as the lift began its ascent. He wondered, with a steadily growing tinge of worry, where exactly his people were. Greg struggled over until they were standing close, coats brushing and heads ducked together. “You alright?”

“I believe so,” Mycroft said, clenching his right fist as the man holding him readjusted his grip, shaking him slightly.

“Quiet.” 

“Oh piss off,” Greg shot back with narrowed eyes. “And you can stop yanking us around, as well. We aren’t likely to make a break for it in the lift, are we? Idiots.” 

The man holding onto Greg, the tall blond from the bar, looked at the man holding Mycroft, as if unused to handling a captive so prone to backchat. 

The lift came to a stop with a faint jolt and a tinny sounding  _ ding _ preceded the opening of the doors. 

Mycroft and Greg were led, somewhat more gently than before, into an office space. Mycroft took in a few details and made it out to be the headquarters of a property rental agency. A few puzzle pieces fell into place. 

He wondered again where his people were. 

“Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he recognized the voice. He peered at the figure seated before them in a nondescript office chair, illuminated by dim yellow fluorescents and slices of moonlight let in through haphazardly closed blinds. He clenched and unclenched his fingers behind his back, the digits stiff and thick-feeling with lack of blood flow. “Miss Lund,” he greeted, mind racing with new probabilities. “How interesting to see you here.”

“Know each other, do you?” Gregory asked, a pleasant lilt to his voice that belied the piercing interest in his eyes as he moved to step closer to Mycroft.

Mycroft turned toward him, would have cupped his elbow had he been able to, and nodded vaguely towards the woman. A polite introduction of an acquaintance. “We used to. Gregory, this is Astrid Lund. Formerly of the Swedish Security Services.”

“Retired?” Greg asked, eyeing up the woman. She was of middling years, with a stylish streak of gray in her straight brown bob and a severe but sensitive line to her smirking lips. 

“Dead, officially. Plane crash.” Mycroft replied, then turned to her. “You’re looking well for a corpse, Astrid.”

“Likewise.” 

Mycroft blinked, and Lund cocked her head, playful. “Over your dead body, wasn’t it, Mycroft? That you’d become… romantically entangled. Allow yourself the weakness. And yet here we are.” She gestured vaguely at Greg. “Heartwarming, I’m sure.”

Mycroft did not glance over at Greg. “What is it you want?” 

“Preferably, a time-machine.” She said, mouth still set in a smirk. “Turn back the clock, stay off your radar.”

“I haven’t the access, I’m afraid.”

“Then I’ll take the release of a few key people and your good graces in leaving the city. You can keep the idiots who shot at your brother’s doctor. I only need my lieutenants back.”

“Whyever would I do that?”

“Your recently developed tender sensibilities,” She answered, a flat note now present in her voice. She flicked a glance to the man closest to Greg and Mycroft fought not to clench his teeth as the man put his boot to the back of Greg’s knee.

Greg dropped with a brief, surprised shout, abused knee cracking into the thinly carpeted floor, but managed not to fall forward. His shoulders twisted as he struggled reflexively against the restraints. “Rude,” he declared, glaring at Lund as though genuinely disappointed in her behavior.

She blinked at Greg, and then smiled. “He’s adorable,” Lund informed Mycroft, turning slightly in her chair and leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees. “But I have no problem raising the corpse count in this room to three.” 

“Don’t.” Mycroft hardly recognized his own voice, what he could hear of it over the rush of blood through his ears. Worry, Mycroft realized, fear. He was unaccustomed to such an immediacy of feeling. He felt his nostrils flare. Too obvious. His mind raced, his eyes taking in shadows and microexpressions and Greg, still on the floor. _ “Don’t.” _

“Or what, darling?”

She was smiling. 

“I will take you apart.” Mycroft watched her, the tensing of the skin around her eyes. He would, he felt certain. “I will make you wish you  _ had _ died in that plane crash.” He eyed the tilt of her head. Something cold settled in the pit of his stomach. “And then I will make you wish you had never been born.” She smiled, still, though it had hardened. “You will know nothing, beyond sorrow and regret. But my sensibilities are tender, as you say.” He realized, suddenly, that he had dug his nails into the flesh of his palm, “And I do not believe I would stop there.”

“You’ve gone absolutely batshit, you know that?”

“You’re ill,” Mycroft said, and Lund looked at him askance but he had already turned, addressing the man with a grip on his arms. 

Lund scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, really-”

“Your stomach hurts and you’ve been excessively thirsty of late. Your breath is fruity, sickly. Are you experiencing confusion yet?” 

The man stood straighter, grip tightening on Mycroft’s arms as he looked at Lund for instruction.

“Your brain has likely already begun to swell. You would be wise to seek immediate medical attention. She does not wish you to leave but she also does not care that you are ill. It is treatable, but it is dangerous. Potentially fatal.”

“Karl!” Lund barked, and the man who kicked Greg, the blond from the restaurant, stepped towards Mycroft, menace in his movements. 

“She despises you, you know,” Mycroft turned to him, stepping back, his arms sliding free from the grip of the man with diabetic ketoacidosis. “She knows how you feel about her and it makes her sick. She sent you this evening to fail. To be captured by my team. You’re a horrible spy, and she knows it.”

“Karl, silence him.”   
  
“You were meant to be a sacrifice. A captured pawn to lower our guard. You should have been picked up before you made it to the bar but we had other plans.”

“She wouldn’t,” Karl said, mouth twisting in an ugly snarl as he grabbed at Mycroft.

Mycroft jerked back, another step towards the far wall, eyes wide and taking in Lund, still seated, Greg, pushing cautiously back up to his feet, and the sick man watching his comrade with a worried look. “She would and you know it. She’s done worse for less. That you dare presume to want her-” 

“I won’t leave her.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft agreed, keeping space between them as he retreated across the room. “She will leave you. She meant to be gone before you could ever return here.”

“You’re lying.”

“No,” Mycroft shook his head, overcome with a genuine sense of pity as he took one more step back. 

Karl followed, stepping into a thin section of bluish moonlight let in through the blinds. 

The only indication of a shot fired was a discordantly dainty tinkle of broken glass. Karl clapped a hand to his neck, blood welling through his fingers, and looked at Mycroft, confused. 

“I am sorry,” Mycroft told him quietly, watching as his knees gave out and he dropped to the floor. 

  
  


***

  
  


Things moved a bit too fast for Greg to keep track of everything, so he decided to focus on a few important things and leave the rest to itself. He worked the letter opener liberated from the desk behind him between his wrist and the zip tie and moved to the edge of the room as the chaos broke out. His eyes never left Mycroft, standing stiffly in shadow on the opposite side of the room. 

Lund was still in her chair, kept there by a courteous smattering of little red dots that wavered slightly but stayed in the general region of her chest, a single cheeky one straying to her forehead and remaining there. 

The bloke with the unfortunate breath stumbled his way to a desk and sat down on the edge of it, hands going up and resting on the back of his head as people in tactical gear swarmed into the room. He was sweating profusely. Greg kept sawing at the zip tie and made his way around the outside of the room. He remained unaccosted by the tactical folks, and supposed they had orders not to bother him. 

Mycroft looked, to his eyes, worryingly pale. 

The zip tie snapped, and Greg shook his arms out with intense relief. He made it to Mycroft and stepped in front of him, catching his gaze and holding it. Mycroft looked back, searching Greg’s face and taking in details in a very Holmesian manner. Greg cupped his left shoulder and then ran his hand down, towards Mycroft’s wrist. Mycroft shuffled obligingly, and Greg moved behind him, sawing quickly at the restraints in the middle, unwilling to risk cutting his skin. 

Mycroft sagged in relief as his hands separated, stumbling slightly and turning to slump against the wall. Greg leaned against the wall next to Mycroft and handed him the letter opener, letting him free his wrists from the too-tight circles of thick plastic himself. 

They watched as Karl was tended to and removed on a stretcher, thick wads of dressings pressed to his neck. 

Mycroft freed first one wrist and then the other, and handed the small, sword-shaped implement back to Greg wordlessly. 

Lund was escorted out, along with her ailing lackey, under armed guard. She looked resigned as she was led passed them to a hallway, eyes dragging disdainfully over them as she trudged along, ignoring all attempts from her sweaty, swaying compatriot to catch her attention. Greg hoped he would be receiving medical attention soon. 

They were both rubbing absently at their wrists when Mycroft’s possible assistant, possible handler came striding into the room, heels clicking, subdued, against the thin carpet. She stopped squarely in front of Mycroft, pretty eyes wide and penetrating, curious and worried at once.

Her concern seemed to break Mycroft out of his haze. His eyes narrowed and an eyebrow arched. Greg felt himself smile. 

Mycroft pushed himself away from the wall, straightening to his full, impressive height. “What on earth took you so long?”

“There was an unidentified target on the premises, sir, the tactical team lead thought it best to neutralize the potential threat before proceeding to phase two.”

Mycroft looked at her. Greg looked at her.

She pursed her lips and turned partially towards the lift at the other end of the office, pulling a phone out of… well, Greg wasn’t really sure where she pulled it from. She began to tap rhythmically against the screen with both thumbs, not bothering to look down at it. She angled her shoulders, a tentative invitation to start walking, if they were ready. “He’s waiting in your car, sir.”

“The, er, tactical team lead?” Greg posited, after Mycroft refused to move. 

“Mmn,  _ no,” _ Anthea said, scrunching her nose up slightly at Greg in a sweet,  _ you tried _ sort of gesture. 

  
  


***

  
  


“Brother,” Mycroft greeted dryly as Sherlock shoved his way out of the back seat of the black sedan once the door was opened. 

“Really, Mycroft? Locking me in the back seat, now?”

“You’re right, of course.” Mycroft smiled his Sherlock smile and glanced at Greg, who was looking back at him with an understated twinkle in his eye. 

“Next time,” Greg murmured, glancing meaningfully at the boot of the car and stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

“Absolutely,” Mycroft agreed, and then took in his brother’s dishevelled state. He was, of course, studied in return.

“Bit industrious, for you.” Sherlock said after a beat. 

“All parties were not as forthcoming with their intelligence as they perhaps could have been.”

Sherlock smiled, widely and fakely, and rocked on his heels. “Well, we all got here in the end.”

“Some of us got here in the boot,” Greg pointed out, voice flat.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” Sherlock ignored Greg and continued to stare at Mycroft.

Mycroft clenched his fingers and his jaw. He had not been aware that he was holding his arm awkwardly, but now that attention had been drawn to it the dull background throb became harsher and more distracting. “It was shot.”

“Again?”   
  


“No.”

“It was manhandled by Swedish thugs during a kidnapping we thought was necessary because you wouldn’t share your leads.” Greg stated succinctly, turning away from Sherlock and stepping closer to Mycroft. 

Mycroft turned to face him more fully, attempting to suppress a flinch as Greg crowded close to his arm. 

“Do you need to get that looked at?”

“No,” Mycroft said, perhaps a touch too quickly. 

Greg snorted and lifted his hand, and Mycroft kept himself still as Greg’s fingers brushed, so lightly that Mycroft wasn’t quite sure he felt it, across the sleeve of his coat. His fingertips, held up for Mycroft to see, came away smeared with pink.

“I am not going to hospital again,” Mycroft declared, and Sherlock, who had leaned forward to inspect the goings on and, no doubt, eavesdrop, smirked. “Hush,” Mycroft warned. 

“What?” Greg looked between them.

“Mycroft  _ hates _ hospital,” Sherlock said, malicious glee in his smile as Greg raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s the anaesthetic,” he explained, and Mycroft rolled his eyes and clenched his fingers again. “He’s too ginger to be anaesthetized properly. Makes him go all loopy.”

They were interrupted by Anthea, who approached wordlessly, handing Mycroft and Greg their mobiles. 

Greg nodded, checking his briefly before tucking it away in his pocket. “Thanks.” 

“Situation?” Mycroft asked. 

“Under control,” she assured him. “I have it well in hand, if you require medical attention, sir.”

“I do  _ not _ .”

“Where’s John?” Greg asked suddenly.

“Baker Street. Couldn’t find a sitter,” Sherlock supplied, suspiciously obliging. He was watching Mycroft. 

Greg watched him as well, an oddly soft look on his face. “Let’s go see John. Get your arm looked at.”

Mycroft was about to decline when Sherlock spoke up as well. 

“Rosie would love to see you. And your “ouch.” She is fascinated by physical trauma.”

“‘Course she is,” Greg muttered under his breath, then addressed Mycroft with an overly-peppy smile. “What d’you say?”

***


End file.
